University of Virginia Library

45. CHAPTER XLV.
BEATRICE REVEALS HER SECRET.

“It is not a trifling thing, when some soul, the noblest and
purest ever sent by God to bless us, is torn from us by the
hand of what seems a blind and pitiless destiny. This is,
perhaps, the hardest trial of poor, feeble human patience, and,
if the very soul succumbs, and the heart grows sour and bitter,
is there any room for wonder? Under one of these
overwhelming strokes, the head bows down and faints, as the
knight of the middle age, struck by some gigantic battle-axe,
lost his firm place upon the saddle, and was hurled to earth.
All suddenly is gone—all that made life desirable—the
sunshine and the blue skies—in place of them, darkness,
despair.

“At such moments, poor humanity doubts its God;
raises, perhaps, impiously-clenched hands to heaven, and,
maddened by despair, blasphemes the being who has struck
it to the heart. Its faith, and purity, and trust in God are
gone; and the blood lingers in the veins, frozen, yet fiery;
the eyes, by turns, glare and are glazed. Ere long this
passes, however, and, if the mercy of God is not manifest,
still the heart forces itself to believe—to trust in that mercy,
and then, with the slowly-dragging hours, some of the bitterness
passes; the day is not so dark; and if the sunshine
cannot lie with such a glory on the earth again, at least we
know and feel it is not wholly gone away for ever, but is
there behind the lurid cloud, from which crashed the great
thunderbolt which struck us.

“These trite sentences may indicate, in some measure,

the feelings of Charles Waters, when, leaving Beatrice after
that interview, in which, overwhelmed by her agitation, she
had fainted he left Williamsburgh pale and despairing.”

Thus writes the author of the MS.

For days his soul was the prey of bitter and conflicting
passions. For the first time he felt how completely she had
grown to be a portion of himself. He never knew how much
he loved her until he lost her. And now, when all the
powers of his being were subdued to an unutterable tenderness
for that bright, gentle creature—when he could not
think, or read, or study, or see any thing around him, for
her ever-present image—now, when he loved her passionately,
with the full force of his affluent and large nature
—now he felt an impassable barrier rise up between them—
a huge wall, more durable than adamant—more lofty than
the stars—a barrier which defied his utmost efforts, which
must separate her eternally from him. He raved and tore
his hair; he felt his heart growing sour—all those great and
noble thoughts, which were wont to tenant the palace of his
mind, like a troop of radiant angels, fled away; and if he
again attempted to gather hope or tranquillity from the pure,
veiled brows, they changed and gibbered at him like a troop
of imps, and jeered and fled away with horrible mocking
laughter!

So days passed—nights, almost sleepless: calm succeeded.

He began to feel the dignity of suffering:—he rose
grander from his despair, and saw the sunlight through the
clouds—the light of heaven. With his brow resting on his
clasped hands, the strong man prayed, and went forth in the
quiet evening, and was comforted. Nature looked on him
with her soft, luminous eyes, and the bright river, and the
autumn forest, spoke to him. He now saw what his duty
was plainly. She was immovable; he knew, he felt, that she
was lost to him: that she might passionately yearn to fall
upon his bosom, but not yield. She might love him far
more deeply than she had done—still, he felt well convinced
that she would be equal to the struggle with herself. She
could not turn his life into splendor,—be his dear wife: he
had no claim upon her, would not ask to have any. But he

could watch over her—protect her—if necessary, match his
own heart and arm against that insulting annoyer.

Yes, all was lost to him—but she had gained, at least:—
and so he returned to his labors in the field, and having
finished his work, entered the house where his old father
dreamed in the chimney corner, to prepare himself for
another visit to the town. The old man and his son exchanged
a tender greeting as he passed into his small apartment,
and taking off his blanket coat, he donned his usual
doublet of coarse drab. As he was putting on his hat, he
heard voices in the next room, and going thither found himself
in the presence of a servant whom he had seen frequently
at the “Raleigh.” The servant delivered to him a note,
directed succinctly “to Mr. Charles Waters.”

He opened it with a flush upon his brow, and read:

A sudden paleness chased away the crimson flush, and
the young man turned away and fell into a chair.

“Answer, sir?” said the negro boy. He made a movement
of his head, and muttered:

“I will come—say to Miss Hallam that I shall come
at once.”

And again he read the simple words which had aroused
such a tumult in his heart. Her hand had rested on this
paper; she had traced those words—she was lost to him!
Those were the thoughts which made him again breathe
heavily and close his eyes.

Telling the old man that he would return very soon, he
left the house, and took his way towards Williamsburg.
Why had she sent for him? To rend his heart by the sight
of that paradise for ever closed to him? To try herself, and
show him that her life was not wholly dark? To say “you
think that I am wretched, that I suffer pain because you
suffer—see! I am calm?” No! none of these thoughts
dwelt for a moment on his mind: his clouded brow plainly
rejected all of them. Suddenly, a light like the flush of
dawn broke over those gloomy eyes, and his face brightened
like a midnight sky, illuminated by some great soaring conflagration.
Could it be? Could she have sent for him to say
“my strength has failed me—I cannot resist myself—I am

too weak—my heart, my life, are yours!” Had she relented,
banished that stern resolution, given herself up to what her
heart called out for?—No! and the light changed to gloom
again. He recollected too well that last faint cry of love
and grief, of passion and despair, of weakness and strength.
“You cannot move me now—I have conquered myself!”
No, no!—that woman's resolution was adamant—he felt that
all he loved her for was against him in the strife—her noble
disinterested devotion, and strength of purpose to continue
in the right!—could she have called upon him to protect
her! had Mr. Effingham dared to persecute her in reality!—
and with the thought his hand clenched, his breast heaved,
his brows were curved into a haughty frown; his pace, already
rapid, became the walk of a race-horse. He would soon
know, for there was Williamsburg: he is in the streets: he
passes through the noisy, laughing, bustling throng: he enters
the inn: he knocks and goes into her room—she is
there before him!

Beatrice rose, with such an expression of mingled anxiety
and joy, that he remained for a moment without advancing,
gazing at her in silence.

Beatrice broke that silence:

“Oh! this was very kind,” she said, with that simplicity
and tenderness, which at times made her voice pure music,
“I could not have expected you so soon.”

And her voice trembled slightly, as she placed her hand
in his, with fond and confiding affection. A tremor passed
over his frame as he took it.

“Do you need me—has any one annoyed you?” he said,
coming with a bound to his absorbing thought.

“Oh no!” said Beatrice.

He breathed more freely, and sat down, passing his hand
over his throbbing brow.

For a moment they both remained silent, scarcely daring
to look at each other.

“You sent for me?” he murmured, with his face turned
from her.

“Yes,” said Beatrice, in the same low tone, “I was
troubled, and unhappy—no, not unhappy—”

And her voice faltered.

“Unhappy?” he said, not feeling himself strong enough

to encounter her gaze: “what could have made you unhappy?”

The tone of these words plainly indicated that his meaning
was, “I am the wretched and unhappy person—your
suitor for a priceless boon denied to me—I have a right to
feel miserable, you have not.” Beatrice felt her heart throb,
and her throat fill with tears.

“I have—much—to make me—unhappy!” she said, in
a broken and faltering voice, “very much.”

“Yes, yes, we all have—we are mortal,” he replied, in
a low voice, “I have had much myself.”

“Oh, do not speak of that,” cried Beatrice, bursting into
tears, “I cannot speak if you do.”

“I will not,” he murmured, his large shadowy eyes
turning to her own for a moment, then averting their gaze.

“I am so weak now, that I don't think I could endure
another—such—” and the tears choked her.

He suppressed his emotion by a powerful effort, and taking
her hand, said, sorrowfully:

“You shall not be agitated again by any thing I say; let
us not touch upon that subject then. Tell me frankly,
Beatrice, what you wished me to visit you for—you cannot
have a more devoted—brother!”

Beatrice looked at him, with inexpressible affection, and
murmured, “that might be nearly true.”

“What?” he said.

She trembled.

“I do not think, father—Mr. Hallam—is my father,”
she said, greatly agitated.

“Not your father!” he exclaimed, raising his head
quickly.

“It is so strange!” she murmured again, half to herself.

“Not your father!”

“I am certain that—heaven has—the wildest fiction
could not”—

She stopped, overcome by agitation.

“Beatrice!” he exclaimed, rising erect, “something
strange has happened: you tremble: you send for me:
speak! What is this in my brain, my soul!—What is that
so strangely familiar in your features!—my brain struggles—”

“Charles! I am Beatrice Waters—your Uncle Ralph's
daughter! I feel it!—Oh, heaven has removed my doubts!
—I do not need your assurance! You are my cousin!”

For an instant, the two hearts beat fast—the two frames
felt a tremor run through them.

“Yes! heaven tells me, I am that little child!—the
child of a father who died in that foreign land!—but speak!
Had you not an uncle Ralph?”

“Yes,” he murmured, looking at her as in a dream.

“Your father's name is John!”

“Yes!”

“You lived in Kent once!”

“Yes!”

“In London next!”

“Yes!”

“Your uncle died in—”

“In Malta, twenty years ago!” he said, scarcely conscious
of what he was saying, scarcely able to speak from
agitation—wonder—an overwhelming, undreamed of delight,
which paralyzed his limbs, it seemed, arresting the very blood
in his veins, making a lifeless statue of him.

Beatrice was almost as much agitated as her companion,
and had uttered these hurried interrogatories with a trembling
voice, a heaving bosom, a brow flushing and growing
pale by turns. But when his last reply came—when he
said, “In Malta, twenty years ago:” then her remaining
doubt became a dazzling certainty; all mists swept away,
and, covering her face with her hands, she murmured:

“I am his daughter!—God directed the orphan's steps!
—I am his child!”

Her knees bent under her, and overcome, exhausted, she
would in another second have fallen upon his bosom:—when
suddenly the door was thrown open, and Mr. Effingham entered
the apartment.